


All in one and one for all

by MostFacinorous



Category: The Three Musketeers (2011)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Barebacking, Begrudging Consent?, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Dominance, Double Penetration, First Time, French Kissing, Gangbang, Gentle Sex, Gloves, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Partners, Multiple Sex Positions, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, PWP, Parking Ticket, Rimming, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostFacinorous/pseuds/MostFacinorous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis gave D'Artagnan a parking ticket, which no one remembered to pay, and now the Comte de Rochefort is here to collect. And just in case that doesn't sound enough like a bad porn set up to warn you, there is very very little story to this.<br/>Like, mostly none.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All in one and one for all

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Decadent_Hedonism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decadent_Hedonism/gifts).



“Porthos, you must--” D'Artagnan barged through the doors of their home, a huge smile plastered across his face, and froze in his tracks to see Rochefort sitting-- quite civilly-- amongst his friends and comrades at their table. Everyone was looking quite grim.

Everyone with two eyes, that is. Rochefort stood and took a single step towards where D'Artagnan had stopped in the doorway. His movement, however, pulled the other three men to their feet. Rochefort held up a hand to stop them and turned instead to his words.

“D'Artagnan. I'm afraid I have some... bad news.” Rochefort seemed the opposite of afraid. Gleeful, in fact, seemed a more fitting descriptor.

“Might I?”Aramis spoke, phrased it as a request, though it was really more of an order. Rochefort tilted his head and spread his hands, a clear invitation if ever there was one, and reclaimed his seat.

Porthos and Athos sat as well, looking uneasily between themselves.

“Do you remember, when you came, and I gave you that slip of paper, ah, left it in your horse's saddle?” Aramis sounded uncharacteristically timid, and D'Artagnan frowned.

“Yes, of course. It was how we met. I wadded it up and threw it at you. It was a charge for having put my horse in the wrong place-- a ticket.”

“Yes. As you know that is how I make my living-- and you never paid it. I had forgotten, in all the ensuing hubbub but...” Aramis spread his hands, as though displaying his guilt in the matter.

D'Artagnan's eyes darted from face to face, seeking an answer to the grimness of the situation.

“I don't understand.” He said quietly, turning finally back to Aramis.

“When you don't pay your fines, the penalty is strong, lad.” Athos said, saving his friend the trouble of trying to answer. “Rochefort here is under orders to bring the Cardinal your hand, unless some other agreement can be reached.”

“If it's money, name your price. I'll find a way to get it--” He looked at his friends in supplication for their agreement. Surely there was something in the coffers to take care of this?

“No.” Rochefort said sharply. “The payment must be made tonight.”

D'Artagnan's eyes widened. Porthos stood up, then, so that only Rochefort remained in his seat-- and somehow, seemed almost more regal for it.

“What is this really about?” Porthos demanded of him, and Rochefort smiled and rubbed at his beard.

“What is anything ever about with this little shit?” He asked, casual and calm, like he were discussing the weather. “He needs lessons in humility. Lessons that you, as his mentors, should have given him long ago.” He glared around at them, impressing their guilt in this matter on each of the musketeers in turn.

“I am not their responsibility, I am no one's responsibility but my own. You can't punish them for my actions. Or... my inactions.”

“All for one--” Aramis began, but Rochefort interjected, his one eye rolling.

“Spare us. If you want to be all for one and one for all, I would be happy to accept that. In exchange for D'Artagnan's hand, I want you to teach him humility.”

There was a moment of silence, and then a chorus of voices, agreeing. Tripping over themselves to agree. Rochefort held up his hand, calling for silence.

“I want you to teach him humility now. Tonight. To my satisfaction. And I will be testing him.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?” Athos asked, his words dripping with the disdain he so clearly held for the man.

“I'll instruct you, have no fear. I just want to see the boy humiliated. No lasting harm will be done to him. On my word.”

“Your word is worth very little, Captain. We have seen your word at work before.” Porthos shot angrily.

“Then on my master's word. And on my life.” He looked bland, uninterested, and began inspecting the seams of his gloves. “Or else, on your young friend's sword hand. What do you say?”

The proposal was met with silence. Finally, D'Artagnan realized the choice was his.

“If my friend are willing, then I accept.” He looked around, beseeching with his eyes. Each of them, in turn, looked away, and then each nodded, and agreed quietly.

“Excellent. Now, D'Artagnan. Boy. Don't worry, your humiliation needn't be a public affair. In fact, I think we should keep it quite private. Aramis, it was you who did the most to get D'Artagnan into this situation. I want you to make him disrobe. Help him, if you want. But I want to see him. All of him.” Rochefert had a grin like a mad dog, D'Artagnan noted, more comfortable focusing on that than on the voices of his friends, than on what he was supposed to be doing.

Finally, one voice cut through the babble of horrified objections. It was his own.

“Alright. It's okay, I'll do it.” He tossed his head high proudly and closed the door, locking it behind him. “Aramis? What's first?”

Aramis seemed frozen, caught in Rochefort's web.

“J-jerkin.” He said, then, stronger, looking back at Athos over his shoulder. “Unlace your jerkin. Quickly now, we haven't all night.” He looked to Rochefort for his nod of approval, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, D'Artagnan was standing there, defiant and proud, looking disheveled.

“Shirt, then.” He said next, and he watched the boy pull the bottom from where it was tucked into his pants, and then when he reached to the back of his neck and hoisted it up and over his head, then slid the white cotton down his arms. He dropped it on the floor on top of his over vest, and Aramis swallowed.

He was beginning to feel stirrings that he knew he shouldn't have, and guilt that he hadn't felt since he'd been laicized so many years ago.

“Boots.” Aramis's lips were dry and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the lines of their younger partner's torso. He'd been lean when he came to them, already fit and a trained hand for the sword, but under their guidance he'd flourished, muscles becoming defined, and the last of his baby fat turned to whipcord lines of strength under his skin. But they hadn't seen him, not really... they all preserved his modesty, the way he did theirs. Honor was an operative force in the house, and yet here they were.

He watched as D'Artagnan wobbled, lifting his foot to try and remove the boot, and he stepped forward only too late, while the boy found himself seated on the ground, tugging with both hands. Once his feet were freed of their confines, Porthos tried to break the mood by guffawing about the stench of the lad's feet, but it was too forced, too loud in the silence, too jovial where there were no laughs to be had.

The others could not bring themselves to smile. Instead, all it resulted in was a scarlet blush that colored from the tips of D'Artagnan's ears and spread down his face and neck, to settle splotchily over his chest.

Aramis offered his hand to help the boy up, and he took it.

“Trousers now.” He said softly. Then, after a moment, “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Aramis.” Rochefort barked, and Aramis jumped and withdrew his hand. “The point of this exercise is instilling him with a healthy dose of shame. Or had you forgotten? I daresay you became... distracted.” Rochefort smiled another greasy smile, and Aramis sucked in air between his teeth. He held his tongue, though, sure that anything he said would be taken out on D'Artagnan before the night was through.

The boy in question made a small noise of desperation, and Aramis realized that the lad's hands were shaking so hard that he couldn't undo the ties at his waist.

“May I?” He asked. He expected a nod from the boy, but it was Rochefort who gave him the go ahead. He closed his eyes, steadying himself, then turned his attention squarely to the breeches' laces.

“Like you said, Aramis. We haven't all night.” Rochefort said, and the sound of his languid tone of voice made Porthos growl.

He stood and shouldered Aramis out of the way, pulled his boot dagger, and sliced the laces open.

He turned, blocking D'Artagnan from the keen eye of Rochefort while the boy stripped out of the breeches, Porthos and all his brawn daring Rochefort to disagree.

“It seems Porthos is better suited to the humiliation than you, Aramis. Come and sit. Porthos, bring that desk over, and help our boy spread himself out on it.” Rochefort sounded lazy, almost like he hadn't noticed Porthos's ragged angry breaths, or the clinging burn of shame on D'Artagnan's cheeks.

Aramis took his seat, though he moved it closer to Athos first. Athos patted his friend's shoulder, trying to give comfort, even as his face folded itself into a stony expression. He refused to look away, despite the horror of the situation for the lad... because he did not trust Rochefort's word.

The desk made a loud scraping noise as it was pulled across the floor, and though either of them could have risen to help, they knew that following Rochefort's instructions was an important part of this game.

Once it was in place, D'Artagnan sat up on it, legs swinging a little as he perched and they no longer reached the floor.

“Porthos.” Rochefort reminded, and Porthos scowled but put his hands on the lad.

The moment they fell on his shoulders, callused from swordplay and warm, but not rough by any means, D'Artagnan's flush intensified. Still, he bit his lip and said nothing.

He had his hands folded modestly in his lap, but Porthos understood the role he was to play, the tableau he was to create.

“On your back.” He growled, his words a sharp contrast to his hands, gently easing the boy down. He seemed shocked, but allowed himself to be laid out. He lay absolutely still, but when Porthos's hands closed around his wrists, a small sound of dismay escaped him.

“Don't play shy now, lad.” Porthos told him. “Don't forget who we are; we know how cocky you can be. Still, it's nice to get a good hard look at the levels of cockiness that we have to bring down.” His voice, again, was rough, but his hands and eyes were kind. He pulled D'Artagnan's hands back, over his head, and wrapped his fingertips around the edge of the table, sparing a moment to squeeze one hand in an offer of comfort and a reminder of solidarity.

“All for one.” D'Artagnan whispered, and the tiniest trace of a smile crept onto his face.

“Open his legs.” Rochefort snapped, clearly disapproving of the intimate, quiet moment.

D'Artagnan sat up sharply, suddenly interested in knowing where this game was going.

Rochefort tsked.

“No, I want to know, where does this end? You plan to humiliate me, and not leave lasting damage to my person-- fine. But if you think baring myself to you is going to be enough to do it, well... clearly you have never met a Musketeer.”

Athos covered his face with one hand, peeking out from between his fingers.

“And clearly you do not know... when to keep your mouth shut.” Rochefort gave another tiny smile. It was barely a flex of his cheek muscles, and yet it still communicated all sorts of smugness.

He stood and turned to address the men seated behind him.

“It seems D'Artagnan is not satisfied being spread out and bare before us. I suppose we shall have to intensify our lessons. Athos? Please relieve Porthos. I think yours is exactly the firm guiding hand needed now.”

Athos stood without comment and straightened his shirt sleeves as he stepped around the table.

Porthos stood beside the desk, no longer touching D'Artagnan, and D'Artagnan sat still, obviously torn between running away, fighting, and accepting his fate.

Athos glanced at Porthos, sighed, and shook his head.

“You are risking your entire future, D'Artagnan. Run, and you will have a price put to your name, never able to return. You won't go down in the history books, or in songs or stories; you'll be too busy hiding. Fight and you lose your hand, and lose your ability _to_ fight. Trust in us-- we won't allow harm to befall you. Not here, not in our house, not by our hands or his. Submit to us, D'Artagnan. This is about acknowledging your betters, and showing your respect.” He stood now, facing the naked boy, hands clasped behind his back, perfectly still. Rochefort would not be able to see his face, only hear his voice, deadpan and calm.

He whispered to the lad, “Please. Trust me.”

D'Artagnan nodded.

“Good. Athos, behind him. I want you to teach him restraint, something he has lacked for some time now. Use your hands. D'Artagnan-- if you come without permission, the next thing you will learn is restraint made of leather and rope.”

“Restraint as-- yes.” He changed directions mid sentence, and circled around behind him. He had to pass Porthos to do so, and found his way blocked.

“Are we truly going to allow Rochefort this violation?” Porthos asked, his voice low. Athos clasped his shoulder.

“It is truly a violation if D'Artagnan agrees to it, and it saves his future? It is his choice, and if he chooses to end it, we will of course defend him-- but that will end with us all outlawed the same.”

“And what of us? Have we no choice in the matter?” Porthos did not bother keeping his voice down. Athos glanced back to see Rochefort grinning as he leaned on the table.

“Your choice is as follows: You can stay and help, support your brother in arms, or you can leave him to us, and, if Aramis leaves as well, to me. Me and Rochefort. I will not abandon him. And... it is no violation to me.” The last he murmured, and Porthos looked shocked.

“You heard your brother, Porthos. Reclaim your seat and enjoy the show, or leave-- your call.”

Porthos stepped aside, his face shuttered and considering. Athos breathed deeply through his nose, and removed his stiff over coat. He climbed upon the desk and slid his legs until they straddled the boy's thin hips, not so different so far from a position he'd been in numerous times before with one lady or another.

And like some of them had, D'Artagnan was trembling, though he tried to control it. Athos lifted his hand to remove his leather glove, but D'Artagnan stopped him with a whisper as shaken as the lad himself seemed to be.

“Don't. Leave it-- I... I couldn't bear the touch.” He paused only for a moment, then accepted that, and pressed him back, until D'Artagnan's shoulders were pressed to his chest.

“Good lad. Now close your eyes if he will let you, and picture your... Constance, was it? Picture her, imagine the touches are hers, and try not to let yourself be overwhelmed.”

D'Artagnan knew the advice was good, but he couldn't help but shiver as the vibrations of Athos's voice slid through him, twisting his insides and refreshing the partial erection he had managed while being undressed.

He kept his hands in place between his thighs, and slid his eyes closed obediently.

Athos's hand traveled up from his knee, the leather smooth and buttery soft against D'Artagnan's skin, the same way Athos imagined the younger man's skin would be, if his hand could but feel it.

Still, he respected the boy enough to allow him this shred of privacy.

When Athos's hand slid up into the crease of his hip, D'Artagnan felt his erection leap beneath his palms, and bit his lip against the shame of it. Soon they would all see-- see him, as he was. He swallowed harshly.

“Get your hands on my thighs, boy.” Athos snapped. He nuzzled in closer, his chin resting on the back of D'Artagnan's shoulder and his lips hidden in his hair. “Squeeze as hard as you need to, if it helps.”

D'Artagnan obeyed and shuddered at the appreciative whistle that Rochefort let out.

“Not bad, for a young man.” Porthos asserted, his voice loud and again too genial for the situation. Still, it helped, made D'Artagnan's stomach stop twisting unpleasantly with fear of inadequacy. But that left the problem of his stomach twisting with something else.

Athos wrapped his hand around D'Artagnan's dick, finally at the point that was different than pleasing a woman. Still, he was familiar with the hardware. How could he not be? The real difficulty would be not pleasing him too much.

But he was already so hard, and even through the thin leather, he could feel the boy's member pulsing and throbbing, warm blood pumping in time to D'Artagnan's elevated heart beat.

In a moment of unmasked greed, he wished that he could watch as he slid his fist up and down the shaft, twisting and squeezing.

The small noises that he pulled from D'Artagnan's throat were enough to make his own loins twitch with interest.

“Aramis! You are a man of words.” Rochefort said. “Tell Athos what you see.”

“I- I took a vow!” Aramis protested feebly.

“One that you have broken with impunity for years now.” Rochefort returned, casual and unperturbed.

“Tell me, Aramis. Is he very beautiful?” Athos saw how this could be used to reassure the boy, and tried to guide his friend into helping.

“He- he is.” Aramis said, slowly.

“If you won't tell Athos what you see, I will.” Rochefort offered. He stopped studying his glove, and his eye flicked up to slide over the man and boy before him.

“He's flushing, and leaking. He's got his eyes closed, trying to be anywhere but here, but he can't be, can you D'Artagnan? He's growing warm, trying to stop the sounds from coming, even if it means he'll bite through his lip. He's trying to stop himself from moving, stop himself from fighting or fleeing, I'm sure you can feel his fingers digging into your leg. He's desperately trying not to appear to be a coward, desperately trying not to become desperate. But he is. And desperation is such a good look for him.”

“His lashes are- are long, and brushing out over his cheeks.” Aramis jumped in, trying to avoid letting Rochefort tear into the boy any further. He'd seen how D'Artagnan had squirmed when forced to be aware of such scrutiny.

“He has- his freckles contrast the flush.” He tried to focus on details, anything that felt less intrusive.

“You haven't sped any, but he's arching his back now. His whoreish nipples are thrusting forward, begging for attention. You've a spare hand just now. Give him what he wants.” Rochefort was unamused, and began speaking over Aramis.

“I. He- he's squeezing his eyes closed tighter, and he's leaking out over your fingers now. His toes are clenched and he's grimacing-- fighting it. You-- the nub in your fingers is turning dark, but he seems to enjoy it. His hips are swinging now, and he... He must be close.”

“Please--!” D'Artagnan gasped it out, and Rochefort held up that damn near imperious hand again.

“Stop.” He said, and moved closer, until he stood between D'Artagnan's parted legs, looking down at the younger man. “Look at me, D'Artagnan.” He waited for the boy's eyes to flick upwards obediently, his neck stretched with the curl of his spine. He let out a low whine, and Athos hadn't released him yet-- which was probably for the best. It seemed likely that if he had, the boy's hand would be finishing himself off, and the lesson would all be for naught.

“Please what, D'Artagnan. Tell me.” He lowered himself until their faces were a breath apart. D'Artagnan's eyes were blown out, the pupils widened with arousal.

D'Artagnan spat on him.

Rochefort stepped away, chuckling while he wiped the spittle off of his eyepatch.

“Athos, it seems you were not as useful as one would hope. Porthos? I require your brawn.”

“Whatever for?” Porthos inquired, the barest hint of threatened violence in his voice.

Athos extracted himself from behind D'Artagnan and came around, holding both of his hands up and away from his erection and maintaining eye contact-- reminding him why they were there, and not to lose sight of the goal now.

“Porthos, I think he needs a taste of humility... and I think you should feed it to him.”

“I-- are you implying--” Porthos puffed his chest up, beginning his act of a man offended. Athos punched him in the arm.

“Remember who we are here for.” He hissed, nodding back at D'Artagnan.

“What's he talking about?” The boy asked, more naive than any of them would have thought to imagine him.

“Have you heard of fellatio, son?” Aramis asked. Athos nodded his thanks and encouragement at his friend, and returned to his seat, adjusting himself in his breeches as subtly as possible.

“Only in the context of whores.” D'Artagnan responded, looking somewhat disgusted.

“In the interest of ensuring your full humility, tonight, that is what you are. You are one, boy. A whore. Just within this room, and only for those inside of it.” Rochefort clasped his hands together, as though bestowing him with some grand gift.

“There is a flaw in your reasoning, sir.” Aramis said, surprising Athos.

“Oh?” Rochefort asked, brow raising with amusement.

“I don't know how many prostitutes you are familiar with, but those of my acquaintance tend to be anything but humble.” Aramis looked smug with that point, and even folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair.

“True. Your whores also get paid, though-- whereas all his skin is worth is more of his skin. It is a fair trade you see, with no gain for him. Unlike the women you spend your time with.” Rochefort sneered, and Aramis spluttered out something about how it wasn't as though he had to pay for pleasure... it trailed off, though, when D'Artagnan clambered down from the desk and put himself on his knees before Rochefort.

“If that is your aim, then, Rochefort, may we not cut to the heart of it? You want me to whore myself to you? Then why drag my friends through the mud on the way?” His hands descended to the buckle of Rochefort's belt, but his wrists were caught in short order, and he was kicked away.

“Abject humility is when you find yourself desperate, gagging, begging for it to be done with. I'll see you there by night's end, and when you are sobbing for me inside of you, only then will you be humbled. And only once I've filled you will we be done. As for why drag your friends into it?” He crouched down over the boy, intentionally intimidating.

“Look at them. Look carefully and try to tell me, truthfully, that they do not desire you. Porthos? Open your pants. Show the boy how you feel about him.” He laughed, and even that was wicked. He stood and stepped away and Porthos, who had been hovering nearby, offered D'Artagnan his hand.

“We could still fight, still run.” He told him. “You don't have to--”

D'Artagnan lowered himself to his knees, and opened Porthos's trousers.

“He's right.” He spoke lowly, and he didn't look up into his friend's face, his attention instead focused on his prick, turgid and flushed, demanding attention. Demanding release. “You do want this. Teach me.” He looked up. “Tell me what I should do.”

Porthos looked down on his young friend, then back at his brothers, and at their enemy. Athos nodded. He ran a coarse thumb across D'Artagnan's lower lip and pulled it down with the slightest pressure.

“Open your mouth for me.” He said, words quiet and full of shame.

D'Artagnan dropped his jaw immediately, well aware that he couldn't hesitate with Porthos. The big man was hesitating enough for the both of them. In fact, he was doing it now.

He had to make up for it by leaning in, pressing the tip of his tongue to the opalescent drop that had just begun beading at the tip of his friend's cock.

The taste was gone far too quickly for him to decide whether or not he liked it, but he knew that before this was done, he would have a far more informed opinion.

“Break him in, Porthos. Remember-- spare the rod, spoil the child.”

“You're a sick freak, you know that?” Porthos asked, the words ending on a grunt when D'Artagnan closed his mouth and slid it further down the shaft-- as far as he could get it, in fact. It wasn't far, and his jaw ached already from being held open so wide. He didn't know why he'd expected to be able to take it all into himself, but that wasn't the case. He pulled back, gagging and spluttering.

“Perhaps.” Rochefort countered. “But you're the one with his dick in a child's mouth-- and before he's done with you, you'll need to be half way down his throat.”

“I--” Porthos started to object again, but D'Artagnan pulled back, now that he knew his objective, and slammed his head forward, trying hard to get more of it in. He knew better than to scrape his friend with teeth, especially here where it was sensitive, but in the process of pulling back after that failed attack, he couldn't help it.

Above him, Porthos hissed and brought his hands down to still D'Artagnan's head, lest he attempt to impale himself again while he tried to speak. D'Artagnan stared up at him, just the head of his prick in his mouth. It was obscene, the way he looked. His lips were reddening from the pressure, his eyes shining from the watering they were doing. He looked debauched. He looked enticing. He looked positively fuckable. Just the same, this was D'Artagnan.

“You're really sure about this?” He asked.

The younger man hollowed his cheeks and hummed his assent, well aware he couldn't speak. Porthos's eyes slid shut at that as he lost himself in the feeling of it, and D'Artagnan made a questioning noise.

His eyes snapped open.

“Your angle is wrong-- this isn't the best way for this. Here...” he stepped away. “Let me help you back on the desk. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you three above all others.” D'Artagnan said, his voice high and proud, ringing in the hush of the room, though one could hear the gravel in it from his recent misuse.

“Then on your back, your head here.” Porthos gestured. He glared at Rochefort silently, and Rochefort gave him a smile, and then corrected,

“Not this way, swing to the side, no-- there.” Arranging them that those sitting might have a full view from the profile, to better see proof of Porthos's penetration.

Porthos kneaded his fingers through the back of D'Artagnan's hair, pulling it and moving his head until he was ready.

“Porthos?” The boy asked, and Porthos froze, expecting that it was to be called off. He shook his head a little. “Will you-- can you tell me what will happen?”

Porthos blew out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

“I'm going to slide into you. It-- you may gag, at first. You may find it hard to breathe-- remember to use your nose. And then... fluids from your stomach may rise. Don't fear-- I won't let you choke on them.”

“...Porthos, will it hurt?” The words rushed forth from his mouth, like he thought if he didn't hurry them, they mightn't come at all.

“Afterward, it will be as though you have a cough. It... if it hurts during, just pinch at my leg. Yes?”

D'Artagnan nodded and let his head rest in the man's big hand, no longer straining to hold it up for himself.

Porthos edged in closer, his dick jutting out over D'Artagnan's face. The younger man blanched, the tool looking monstrous up this close. It was, admittedly, bigger than average, hardly anything to sniffle at. D'Artagnan closed his eyes, nodded once, then opened them to see Porthos looking, if possible, more trepiditious than he. The lad wrapped his hands around the man's thighs to help remind him not to change his mind, to flee.

Once again, Porthos stroked at D'Artagnan's lip, and again the boy opened obediently.

He angled his hips and slid in, and the boy found the weight strange and the friction on his tongue from this direction uncomfortable. Porthos made a sawing motion with his member, delving a little deeper with each thrust. From above, he could see the shape of himself in the pale column of the lad's throat, and had to fight not to reach out and trace it through his skin, or close his hand around it for the added tightness-- not that it was needed.

The sounds coming from his mouth made him begin flushing again, and the pressure of being unable to breathe built a little, so he patted gently at Porthos's leg. Porthos pulled back, and he turned his head to the side and spat on the floor, then gulped in air.

Before Porthos could ask, D'Artagnan opened his mouth again and reached out for his legs.

Porthos slipped back into his mouth, and Rochefort laughed.

“He is growing eager for this-- nearly as eager as his friends are to use him.” He remarked.

Porthos, who had begun picking up his pace and sawing a bit faster, slowed, would have stilled, even, if it were not for D'Artagnan using his feet to push himself forward, offering his throat for Porthos's enjoyment.

Porthos groaned as he found himself fully sheathed, and Rochefort clapped slowly and sarcastically.

“ _Stop_.” Aramis demanded, and Porthos looked to him, surprised, but found that he was addressing Rochefort. Athos gestured that Porthos should continue, and though he hesitated, he did.

“Stop what? This? The act of pardoning your young friend? You'd rather he lose his hand?”

“Stop your speeches- his abasement is progressing without your degrading words painting him. You promised no lasting harm- these things you say threaten to cause just that.”

“If he cannot survive the commentary, how do you expect him to last at the point of a sword, or when impaled upon your prick later? No, I think you coddle him, and his lessons in humility need a firm hand, rather than a kind one.”

Aramis looked horrified.

Behind them, providing a soundtrack to their words, Porthos had finally realized that the longer he took to get off, the longer D'Artagnan would be forced to endure the stretching of jaw and gullet. As a result, there was a rhythm of guttural moans, broken only when Porthos had to pull back and allow D'Artagnan some air.

When the latest coughing fit began, the three men who were not balls deep in a warm wet mouth turned to stare, just in time to catch Porthos pumping himself furiously, and the white of his ejaculate spilling out across the boy's upturned face, before sliding down and into his hair.

“He looks pretty this way.” Rochefort said, “Wouldn't you agree, Aramis? No?” He shrugged at the other man's stony silence and gestured at Athos.

“Seeing as Aramis's guilt at having landed our young D'Artagnan here in this mess is clouding his judgment, I think it would be best if you prepped the lad for him. Wouldn't want our pious friend taking more guilt to bed after having harmed the boy, would we?”

“I assume you will not object to my using oils.” It wasn't phrased as a question. Athos didn't care if he objected-- it would help make it easier on D'Artagnan. And, of course Rochefort would punish Aramis for his lack of cooperation by making him be the first inside of the lad. Athos just hoped Aramis could get it up to see it through. And even in his mind, he said 'first' and not 'only'; he had no doubt that each of them would be used to wear D'Artagnan down until he was just as desperate as Rochefort wanted him. And judging by D'Artagnan's inability to simply yield, it might shape up to be a very long night.

Porthos was stroking D'Artagnan's head, cuddling him to his side, offering comfort until Athos sat the vial of oil beside the nude boy on his desk, the dull thunk of glass on wood breaking the moment.

“Go clean yourself up, Porthos. You've done well for him. Hasn't he, D'Artagnan?”

“Thank you.” D'Artagnan croaked. Athos winced, and wished he hadn't prodded the boy into speaking.

“And bring him some wine when you return. Or brandy. Something with some kick. I think he could use it.”

All said, it wasn't a terrible plan; if he could get him drunk, he could make him looser, sloppy... and even when his mouth betrayed him and tried to level smart arsed words at Rochefort, at some point they would be nothing but jumbled syllables and slurred sounds.

But he doubted they would have time for that.

“Take your knees for me, D'Artagnan.” He instructed, again attempting to ignore the throb in his pants. He liked women, had loved them, in the past... but D'Artagnan had all of the same qualities that he'd treasured in his lady. He was bright, agile-- more so than was expected of him, considering his upbringing-- kind, courteous, and wise beyond his years. He was also the one thing she could never be-- loyal, without a shadow of a doubt. He inspired such loyalty to him as well.

“O-” The younger man cleared his throat. “On the desk or the floor, sir?” He asked, and Athos had to resist the urge to shudder at the honorific. It was distance that D'Artagnan was putting between them, he thought. A wise practice for his peace of mind when this was done with.

“On the desk. And facing away. I'm to prepare you for the rest of the evening, and it's important that I do, lest you be... unpleasantly damaged.” He didn't want to describe some of the 'damages' he'd been privy to in his time as a hero. He just knew he didn't want to see them attached to this lad, not if he could help it. And he could. He was very thorough.

D'Artagnan didn't argue, just climbed up and presented Athos with his ass, both sets of his cheeks flushed and burning with shame.

Athos lay his still gloved hand on D'Artagnan's rump, stroking his fingers over the warm skin gently while he considered.

“May I... touch you? I'd rather not ruin these gloves, but if your comfort demands it, I will.”

D'Artagnan's head dropped, and Athos watched his shoulder blades flex under the skin.

“I'll leave them on, then, it's honestly fine.” He hastened to assure the boy. D'Artagnan nodded, and then said, in a small voice,

“I... really like the gloves. On you. Um. T-touching me.”

The weight of that sentence fell over the table, and though his voice had been small, it was clear it had carried, for Rochefort slapped his knee and let out a shout of a laugh.

“Don't.” Aramis warned, voice hard in the echo of the mean spirited mirth. Athos ignored him; he knew who it was directed at, and it didn't effect him. He kept his attention focused solely on D'Artagnan, trying to keep him similarly engaged. Building a rapport.

He was glancing back over his shoulder now, and though the mess in his hair had dried, it was still obviously there, causing clumps. His lips, too, bore the signs of his recent use of them.

He forced himself to look away and lifted the oil bottle. He spilled some over just the tips of the fingers of his gloves.

“I've never done this quite this way before.” he told him. “If the seams or anything else hurts you, you are to let me know immediately. Do we understand one another?”

“Yes. Yes sir.” D'Artagnan responded, and Athos could actually see his bum clenching at the mere thought of being entered.

“Lad, I hope you are clean.” He muttered, thinking fast, and leaned down and in.

He held the boy's cheeks apart with his hands, and with his tongue he found and re-found the pucker of his entrance, circling it and teasing it with gentle flicks.

“You-- are you-- ah!” D'Artagnan was trying to piece together a sentence; that much was clear.

“I suppose that's as good a way as any.” Rochefort said, amidst the stunned silence of his companions. “Though this exercise is for the humiliation of the boy, not yourself.” It was clear he found himself quite superior to those around him. Athos hated that, and decided to knock him down a peg.

“There is nothing humiliating,” He said, working a finger into the hole he'd abandoned with his mouth, lest it close up out of inattentiveness on his part, “About enjoying the body of a beautiful young man, and helping him to enjoy his body as well. That said, the most humiliating thing here is the fact that you seem so unresponsive to all of this. Or can it be that the Captain is defective?”

“Athos.” Porthos warned, his voice deep and booming, and his lack of foresight showing. Aramis placed a hand on his friend's forearm, realizing full well what Athos was trying to do.

Rochefort had said this would end only once he'd finished inside of D'Artagnan. If he could be taunted into doing so soon, then it would be over soon.

“Not defective, no-- nor unresponsive. I am simply exhibiting the control and patience that your ward so willfully lacks.”

Rather than answering, Athos added a second finger and D'Artagnan let out something that sounded like a sob, though perhaps more gleeful.

“Alright there, D'Artagnan?” Aramis called, just to be sure.

“There's so much.” He responded, sounding dazed by it all.

“I have the brandy here, would you like some?” Porthos asked, springing to his feet with the bottle he'd returned with.

“T-yes, thank you sir.” The words dripped from between D'Artagnan's teeth, followed by a sharp, guttural cry when Athos pressed his fingers in as deep as they would go, withdrew about part way, and scissored them apart, stretching and attempting to make the rest of the evening easier for his friend.

While Porthos tilted the bottle up to D'Artagnan's lips, Athos lifted the oil bottle and spilled it over his nethers, his movements suddenly becoming louder, messier, the sound of liquid and leather on skin filling the empty hush of the room.

Athos watched as the oils and juices from D'Artagnan's ass slowly soaked into his glove, turning spots a darker color in an ever widening stain. But his wok was not wasted, as the boy's sphincter widened as well.

The sounds of D'Artagnan's hurried swallowing were not all that different than the noises he'd made when Porthos had filled his mouth with something wholly different, and for just a moment, Athos let his eyes drift closed and imagined he and his brother at arms on either end of this divine offering, sliding in and out and filling him at both ends. He went so far as to imagine Aramis below them, his mouth full of D'Artagnan while the boy put his hand to good use on the last member's member.

But he only let his imagination linger there for the space of a few breaths, a few heart beats. Then his eyes opened and it was gone. Porthos was staring over the back of the boy between them, his face hard and accusatory, and Athos could not pretend to anyone, most of all one of his most trusted friends, that he was not enjoying himself.

“Please-- Athos, please, I need... more, something more.” His voice had gone high and needy, the words no more than a well articulated whimper now.

He lined a third finger up behind the lad and pressed in, throwing a look over his shoulder at Rochefort while he did so.

“How open did you want him, exactly?” He asked. He was somewhat afraid that he would be forced to see all of his glove disappear into the boy, but he thought that would be a bit much. Not only for his first time, but for his size-- the lad had growing yet to do, and that sort of insertion would clearly cause the permanent damage that Rochefort had sworn would not occur.

Wouldn't it?

“I don't know. Aramis, do you think he is ready for you now?”

The third musketeer, the one who lingered the furthest from the boy, including keeping a table between them, inhaled sharply.

“The question is more, am I ready for him? What if I can't... perform?” His voice sounded pinched, though, reedy, and he was perched on his chair in a way that suggested he had a marked disturbance in his pants.

“Then Porthos will have him. And if you aren't ready yet after that, Athos. And if you still aren't ready, and I don't think he's moaning enough for my tastes, then whichever of your friends can get it up. Failing in that, we see if he can't take the wine bottle.”

That make D'Artagnan let out a whine, and Porthos shuffled until he stood between the lad and the Captain of the guard, glaring.

Rochefort just shrugged.

“Your choice Aramis. But I daresay, of the three of you, you seem the least likely to lose yourself in it and tear his ass on his first time out.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Athos asked, hand out to silence the bellow that it was clear Porthos had intended to make. Porthos held his chest up, inflated with air, and waited.

“I mean that you and Porthos are both enjoying this so much, it would be a shame for my promise to him that he not be harmed to be broken, because you lose yourselves in the tight heat of his snatch, and forget it isn't one of your whores, but an ass you're fucking. A young, inexperienced-- I have surmised it is a virgin ass, isn't it, D'Artagnan?”

“Yes.” He tilted his chin up as well as he could from this position, eyes challenging Rochefort to make something of it. Rochefort smirked.

“So you see, Aramis... you do seem the best man for the job.”

“I'm not. But I will. Spare him the bottle-- I'll do it, damn you.” He came around the table, undoing his trousers as he went, and when he reached the desk and the young man on his hands and knees on it, D'Artagnan wouldn't look at him.

“D'Artagnan?”

“Yes?”

“Do you-- is this still what you want?”

“Please.” He said it stiffly, almost as though through gritted teeth, and Aramis knew he was afraid.

“Will you look at me, D'Artagnan?”

“I thought-- if you want you can pretend I'm some woman. It's fine.” He still sounded like he was carefully controlling his voice, trying not to let it waver.

“D'Artagnan, roll onto your back for me.” Aramis spoke softly, well aware of the pity that was seeping into his voice. He hoped it would be taken for empathy, or at the very least concern, rather than what it was. His first time had been under different, but similarly stressful circumstances, and he would not have wished it upon anyone else, then. He could not help but despise Rochefort even more fully than he already did for forcing it upon their friend now.

D'Artagnan turned and sat up, looking Aramis dead in the eye now.

“Why?” He asked, suspicious.

It made Aramis's heart clench to find that the trust he had so freely granted to them, to help defend his life, to lay his down for them if need be... Rochefort's words were not only for the benefit of humiliating the boy, but to try and drive a wedge between them.

It strengthened his resolve. He would not lose this young friend of his to the actions of tonight.

“I want to see your face so that you won't be able to hide any discomforts from me. You try so often to bear pain and burdens without complaint, for your pride, and so as not to disturb others. This is one time when I cannot allow you to do that.” He tried to sound kind, the same sort of voice he would use when giving advice to a small child.

It did seem to calm D'Artagnan.

He leaned back, first on his elbows and then flush against the desk, his feet on the edge and his knees raised high. This made his head fall off the back end of the desk, and lines of strain formed in his neck when he held it up.

Aramis flicked his eyes up to where Porthos stood, and his brother took the hint and came to stand behind D'Artagnan, allowing him to prop his head on Porthos's strong thigh.

Aramis saw the young man's nostrils widen as he inhaled deeply, and knew he must be smelling the musk of Porthos's member, sitting just beside his face.

Aramis looked up at Athos, and nodded once. He took up the oil and slicked himself, then paused when the head of his prick was barely brushing against D'Artagnan's asshole. He could feel it fluttering beneath him, made ready by the attentions lavished upon it by Athos.

“I'm going to press into you now, lad. Take a deep breath, and, trust me- you will want to bear down. It will make it easier for you.”

It took a moment for D'Artagnan to make sense of the instruction, and by that time a small portion of Aramis's crown had already breached him. He moaned and the action jostled his throat, making him cough, which, in turn, tightened his stomach muscles, sending a wave of white pain through him.

His eyes clamped shut and he let out a low keening note.

It stung and burned and he could feel the stretch, but once he did as he'd been told, it became much easier. Aramis was able to slide the head fully in after only two more thrusts, and then he held still while D'Artagnan's body rocked, his stomach fluttering and churning, sweat breaking out on his brow. He knew the discomfort must be obvious, from the grimace he had not meant to let onto his face, to the way he was digging his nails into his own thighs. Porthos, behind him, reached down and took hold of his hands, letting him fist them around the big man's thumbs, before wrapping the rest of his fingers around D'Artagnan's smaller ones, engulfing them in heat. He brought his arms up to rest on either side of his head, and He took a deep breath, trying to smooth the lines of pain from his face before he nodded for Aramis to continue.

A furrow had formed between Aramis's brows, and he looked up at Athos, at a loss. He had hoped for some small sign as to what he should do-- every part of him wanted to pull away, find his sword, lop off Rochefort's head, and urge them to make a run for it. But this was their home, this was where they belonged. And right now he needed to comfort the boy-- the man-- he had just effectively deflowered.

“It's alright, D'Artagnan. Take your time. Let your body adjust. I won't hurry you.”

“I might.” Rochefort said, from his spot at the table where his insolence had grown so strong that he was actually picking at his teeth with his dagger, rather than paying any real attention to the proceedings.

“Focus on me, and on you. Tell me what you're feeling.” Aramis instructed, using his 'teacher' voice.

“I-uh.” D'Artagnan tried to clear his throat, and winced at how raw it felt. “Hurts. My throat and... and right... the opening. Hot and … it stings. But inside...” he trailed off, looking unsure, his eyes darting back and forth between Aramis's as though the answer might be written on his pupils.

“Feels a little good.” He mumbled.

“There's a boy. Focus on that, alright?” Aramis poured a drizzle of the oil over himself where he joined with D'Artagnan, hoping the cool oil would ease the burn he spoke of. “I'm going to move a little now, is that okay?”

The boy nodded quickly, and Aramis could see his hands tightening around Porthos's fingers in preparation for the pain he seemed sure was to come. He'd never wanted to let down someone's expectations so much before in his life.

He thrust forward, only slightly, and felt his ass trying to reject him. Aramis bit his lip, and felt Athos's hand on his shoulder, heavy and steadying. He breathed deep.

“Bear down again for me, we're nearly there now.”

Porthos was watching him closely, and he could feel the scrutiny almost as physically as he felt the tightness around him and the weight of Athos's touch.

With one last effort, he found himself fully sheathed in the boy, and he let out a feral sounding noise that he was sure would upset the boy. Instead, his eyes were narrowed at a point just over Aramis's left shoulder, and he was afraid that he had somehow made D'Artagnan hate him.

Until he heard Rochefort's voice in his ear.

“There... was that so difficult? And isn't it worth it? You have wanted this for some time now, haven't you?”

The words were intended for Aramis, but he knew that everyone could hear, and his cheeks burned and froze in turn as humiliation and then anger sent the blood rushing first to his face and then away from it.

He opened his mouth to say something, but D'Artagnan got there first.

“Yes.” His voice sounded younger than any of them were used to hearing it, and his words wavered the moment his lips no longer supported their form. His eyes were closed and he was a bright pink, muscles straining and sweat collecting on his face.

“Yes, I... I thought about it. Often. With each of you in turn, I...” He opened his eyes and met each of their disbelieving stares, one after the other. “I felt so terrible about it. I.. I feel terrible about it. Because you don't want this any more than I want my hand severed, but for me this is... so far from a punishment.” He looked at Rochefort, then, afraid that he would take it away, now that he knew it was no strain, beyond the physical.

Rochefort met his gaze evenly with his single eye.

“Because you were made for this.” He informed him, as simply and evenly as if he were saying the sky was blue, the grass green, and his horse cow-like.

Aramis felt and saw how the words affected him. He watched as D'Artagnan's shoulders slumped, and he reached forward, grasping his chin while shifting himself within him. D'Artagnan cried out, more in surprise, he hoped, than discomfort.

“You are good at a great deal many things-- your footwork, your form, your sword play, your honor...” He let his hand wander in a straight line down D'Artagnan's chest, straight to his cock, which he wrapped his hand around. “And I have no doubt that in time, you will master the bedroom arts with the same single minded perseverance. Any lady or man will one day leap at the chance to grace your sheets, and I am _honored_ to have been your first.”

D'Artagnan's eyes were markedly glassier after the speech, and he thought he may have said something wrong, but suddenly the boy rolled his hips and thrust himself upon Aramis's dick.

“Thank you.” He mouthed, even the whisper falling away in his emotion. He looked up to Porthos and tugged his hands free, then wrapped them around Aramis's neck, and brought his legs to cross behind his back.

Aramis was surprised, but reacted quickly, wrapping his arms around the nude boy and hugging him to his chest.

He stood then and shifted his grip to D'Artagnan's thighs, then reversed and sat on the edge of the desk, which wobbled for a moment, then steadied with help from Porthos.

He braced his feet on the floor and shifted his hips, letting D'Artagnan settle further against him, aided by gravity. D'Artagnan squirmed, trying to find a way to lift himself, and unable, suspended as he was without purchase.

Athos stepped in beside Porthos, grasped Aramis around the waist, and pulled him backwards, his trousers sliding against the polished wood of the desk.

The moment there was a surface under his knees, D'Artagnan lifted himself on them and slid back down, a small cry forcing its way out of his throat. Aramis tilted his head back, intending only to enjoy the experience, but the boy took it as an invitation, and buried his face along the column of the older man's throat. He rocked his hips while raising himself up and down, then froze suddenly and let out a ragged gasp, chased by a tremor. A few thin streams of cum slipped down his prick, and Aramis flinched as the already tight corridor fluttered and spasmed around him.

“I--” his voice whined with worry, “I think I-- something-.” His breath hitched and Aramis smoothed a hand over the boy's hair.

“Shh, sh. You aren't hurt. It felt good, didn't it? Do it again.” He moved his hands to D'Artagnan's thighs, trying to urge him along.

The boy rose up and dropped himself back down, frowned, then did it again and again, angling himself wildly, searching for that feeling.

Aramis wrapped his long fingers around the lad's hips and angled his own pelvis, making sure to hit the spot that made D'Artagnan's spine arch, his mouth fall open in a wordless cry, and his legs begin shaking.

He hit it twice more, then felt his own tension building too strong to deny, and rolled them, so that they were both on their sides on the desk. He lifted D'Artagnan's leg and pulsed into him rapidly, shallow thrusts more focused on friction than depth.

“I'm going to finish soon, boy. Where do you want it?”

“Come inside of him.” Rochefort commanded, sounding the slightest bit breathless. “It will ease the way for your friends' turns.”

D'Artagnan let out a whimper at this, which quickly turned into a full fledged moan when Aramis spilled inside of him, painting the walls of his tunnel with a moisture so hot that D'Artagnan thought he would surely be burned.

Aramis stilled slowly and then disengaged, looking down at D'Artagnan while he frantically jerked himself, searching for the edge that he had already backed away from. Aramis felt a wave of embarrassment at not having sent his partner over again first, but that was less pressing than his need to check the boy, and be sure that he hadn't injured him.

“D'Artagnan, I... let me--” he stroked his thigh gently, an unspoken warning for where his fingers were headed next, and then stroked up the crack of the boy's ass. When he drew his finger away there was no red in with his seed, but, just to be sure... and only to be sure, he reminded himself, he inserted a finger into his hole, loose now, and doubtless as sore as it looked.

D'Artagnan moaned. “Please, that.” He asked, not begging, more of an order.

“Porthos.” Rochefort called out, and suddenly the noises they had been making, so loud to Aramis's ears, were put into perspective, how small and quiet they'd really been.

The silence was deafening now, and he withdrew his fingers hastily, rubbing them together and staring at them, unseeing.

It was done, he was done.

D'Artagnan wasn't though. Nor was the night. Not yet.

He took a few stumbling steps backwards and tucked himself away before sitting heavily at his chair and burying his head in his hands.

“But I-- I've just finished.” Porthos said, his eyes wide and round looking toward where Athos was looking torn between staying with D'Artagnan and following Aramis.

“Then you'll last longer, won't you?” Rochefort said, his voice mock sweet and derisive. “The little bitch could use it, look at him.”

“He's not--” Porthos began, but was silenced by D'Artagnan's touch.

“Please Porthos? I'm sorry, I'm sorry to ask, just-- please?” He was so earnest now, his hand wrapped around his cock so tightly that his knuckles were white, almost as though he were intentionally hurting himself-- perhaps trying to chase away his arousal. Porthos couldn't stand it.

He reached down and took the boy's hand away from his member, kissed the center of his palm, and then sighed against the wet mark he left there.

Porthos took off his shirt and folded it into an erstwhile cushion, setting it on the floor.

“Put your knees there. This will be more comfortable for you, I think.” He shot a glance at Rochefort as though expecting him to speak against the position, since it _was_ for D'Artagnan's comfort, but he just waved his hand in a circle, an obvious message to get on with it.

D'Artagnan knelt, hand returned to his prick, and waited for further instruction while Porthos took his boots off and fetched the oil.

At the table, Aramis was looking determinedly at Athos, who spoke quickly and softly.

“Does he look at all as though he hasn't enjoyed himself? Do you worry you've lost his respect? You saw him through it, wrung from him his first penetrative orgasm... and you are saving his life. If nothing else, he will be grateful for that. Pray on it if you must, but know that your decision was right, and that none of your brothers will speak against you for it. Tonight, we're all to be faced with a similar choice, and we will all take the road you have.”

Aramis was shaking his head miserably. “He is well and will remain so, I know, because you will care for him as well as I do, but... my guilt lies in my experience of it. I enjoyed it, and I let myself. It should have been a burden, but I let it be a pleasure. And that... that is what is most unacceptable.”

“Some burdens are pleasures. Children, for one. Lovers, brothers, any relationship with care. Even your title as a musketeer is a pleasurable burden.”

“And I have had all a child, a lover, a musketeer and a brother, all at once, in him.”

“You say you had him as though you have used him up, as though he is not still these things after it has ended. We will have to speak to him, undo this so called lesson in humility as best as words can, it's true. But he won't be lost to you, nor Porthos, nor I. Not if any of us have anything to say about it.”

On the other side of the room, Porthos had slicked himself and added extra lubricant to D'Artagnan's hole, just in case.

“I am rather large, and I will move as slowly as I can to compensate, but if you need me to stop, say so.”

“If he needs you to stop, you'll screw him anyway.” Rochefort informed them, sounding bored. “Humility is bearing the pain of discomfort with grace. I'll wave the grace this time, though, else we would never be through.”

Porthos let out a growl, far more animal than man, and D'Artagnan threw up a supplicating arm.

“Please Porthos, just... please I need you here. With me.” He paused, to build up the courage before adding, “In me.”

Porthos spared another glare in Rochefort's direction, then got to his knees behind D'Artagnan.

He wrapped his left hand around the youth's dick and with his right placed in the center of his back, he guided him down onto his hands and knees.

“You'll tell me if it hurts.” Porthos reminded him, and D'Artagnan nodded, tense again with nerves now that he could feel the wide head of Porthos's monstrous tool pressing against his hole, the very tip of it already sliding in, the edges of the slightly gaping entrance catching on the flare of the crown.

Porthos pressed in, a low pressure that he applied continuously, and he coupled the thrust with distracting tugs on D'Artagnan's cock, until the head slipped inside with an audible pop. D'Artagnan cried out and Porthos stilled.

“No, move, please, please move.” The smaller of them gasped, voice ragged.

“There you are, good boy.” Rochefort all but purred, coming closer to seat himself on the desk and look down at their coupling.

Porthos snarled soundlessly and draped himself over the boy, carefully keeping his weight on the hands he placed on either side of D'Artagnan's shoulders, to help keep from crushing him while he slid in, hiding as much of D'Artagnan from Rochefort's view as possible.

“Feel so stretched.” D'Artagnan muttered, and Rochefort laughed.

“You are, boy. If only you could see yourself-- you're stuck through-- I expect to see the tip of him coming out your mouth any time now.”

D'Artagnan looked panicked at that, and Porthos moved his mouth against him, his mustache tickling.

“I can say from experience that won't be happening tonight.” He assured him, a twist of amusement in his voice. D'Artagnan turned his head to the side as much as he could, and on impulse, kissed him.

Porthos blinked-- surprised-- and withdrew, pulling the boy around to kiss him more fully.

D'Artagnan groaned into his mouth and began rocking his hips, driving his hardness into Porthos's. Porthos felt the boy's lips moving under his. At first he took it as the lad's inexperience, but then he realized he was mouthing words into his beard.

He moved his head back and saw D'Artagnan's face, flushed and blissfully pained, his eyes screwed shut and his lips chanting the word please, over and over soundlessly.

“Do you want this?” He asked, teasing now, no longer afraid of hurting him. If it had hurt, he wouldn't be so eager for it.

“Need it, please...” The boy answered instantly. Rochefort cleared his throat, but didn't comment, a surprising first from him.

“Then have it.” He took careful hold of the lad's legs and hoisted him up, standing and bearing the weight of his young lover like he weighed no more than a cushion.

D'Artagnan wrapped his legs around behind Porthos's back and grasped at his shoulders with fingers that left indents. Porthos held the boy to him with a single large hand, which spanned all of the small of his back, while with the other he lined himself up and pushed in.

D'Artagnan's mouth fell open and a breathy moan came out, one that he would have mistaken for pain if not for the way the boy gyrated on his invading member. Satisfied that he wasn't hurting his young friend, he moved both hands to grasp an ass cheek, and lifted him slightly, before allowing gravity to pull him back down.

“There-- like the toy he is, use him.” Rochefort was excited now, and it could be heard in his voice, seen in the way he leaned forward, the way his foot jangled eagerly against the knee it was crossed over.

“Are you my toy?” Porthos asked, his words purring. “A little toy cannon, going to shoot for me?”

D'Artagnan groaned.

“I-- I don't--” his words were cut off as Porthos pulled him up again, sliding his shaft out of the boy. Instead of whatever he'd intended to end that sentence with, a needy whine came out of his throat.

“You will, won't you?” Rochefort goaded. “You have already made such a mess tonight-- and you'll only make more. Look at how the seed just drips out of you.”

It was true; Porthos could see where his own massive shaft was displacing Aramis's seed, causing it to slide down the globes of the boy's bum and land sloppily on the floor.

“Beautiful.” He rumbled in D'Artagnan's ear, and he felt the shudder that wracked the boy's body in response to the vibrations he was privy to, clenched as he was to Porthos's chest.

And those shudders only gave way to more as he felt the head of him drag against the nub inside of D'Artagnan which made him seize up and cry out.

The sound seemed as though an isolated note from a church choir had somehow wound its way into this den of inequity. And then he began clamping, his muscles rolling inside and around Porthos. He wasn't there yet, wasn't quite ready, but he knew too that D'Artagnan would be so sore after having had two such ends, and all his skin would feel ablaze.

“I want to paint your cock with my come.” He thundered, boisterous and bluffing to hide the fact that he felt he should be asking Rochefort's permission to do so. But Rochefort said nothing. So he pulled out and draped the boy back over the table, laid him out beside the black hearted bastard who still perched there, and began the quick work of stripping his prick to the finish.

D'Artagnan looked up at him, watched him, and said nothing, though his eyes drooped with exhaustion and his breathing had not yet leveled out of panting.

The boy's lips parted and his tongue darted out to lick his lower lip, and that was Porthos's undoing, that small innocent motion ruined for him for all time as he recalled the feeling of being inside of that mouth.

His release streaked out over D'Artagnan's stomach and splattered stripes as far as his ribcage, but it was over very quickly. He felt wrung dry, coming twice already this night, and he reached out to pull D'Artagnan up, intending to envelop the boy in his arms and apologize, or thank him, or some mixture of the two, but Rochefort barked out a short

“Leave him.”

He withdrew his hands, shooting the one eyed ass a look that would kill if stares could be sharpened.

D'Artagnan felt boneless, slumped as he was over the desk. His air felt like it had all been forced out of him, and he felt like he was a breeding mare, taking studs until she caught. He shuddered, grateful that these men, though well endowed, were not, in fact, horses.

“Athos.” Rochefort called forward, and Athos came, his steps even and measured and his face betraying nothing.

He stood, fully clothed, and looked down at his young friend, his charge, his ward, his brother in arms.

“How are you faring, D'Artagnan?” He asked. The boy's eyes were drooping, half masted at best, and the parts of his eyes that were visible were dark. He looked like he had just been at the losing end of several fights, sans the blood, and like he ought to sleep for a week.

“Please, Athos. I... It's so sore.” He sounded pathetic. He knew he did. And he could hear Porthos's intake of breath, and then the scrape of glass on the table as he seized the wine. D'Artagnan frowned, but couldn't find the words to comfort his friend. Not when he was staring up at this man, a man he would willingly follow into the path of harm's way, hoping for some form of comfort for himself. But Athos was frowning. D'Artagnan wrapped his arms across his chest and turned his eyes away.

He felt bad-- first he asked this of them, then had the gall to complain. He shook his head and tried to apologize, tried to tell Athos it was fine, just to do what he needed, but words didn't come. He opened his mouth and--

“Aramis?” Athos spoke suddenly, producing a silver from his purse. “Nip to the end of the lane and bring me back some ice from the big house, will you?”

Aramis put his hand out and Athos pressed the coin into his palm. “Hurry as much as you can, please.”

“Do we really have time for this? Aren't you afraid that the delay will ruin the desperation and building humility we have been working him to all evening? It is no kindness to make him have to start over, Athos.” Rochefort was taunting them with his faux concern. D'Artagnan was so dizzy minded now that he took the words to heart, though, and he let out a small sound of distress.

“I'm-- I'm sorry, Athos, please. Just... I need it to be over, please, Rochefort, please?” His voice climbed in volume when he turned his head toward the man behind this night, the man calling the shots.

“And leave your leader unsatisfied? A good portion of humility is gratitude, and I think that would be terrible ungrateful of you. Wouldn't you agree?”

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to protest, but Athos got there first.

“You promised no lasting damage. I think an argument could be made that over use would qualify. He is not yet grown-- not very much more than a child-- and I have seen grown men who have been burdened for life for less.”

Rochefort clucked his tongue in his mouth.

“Methinks the musketeer doth protest too much. You want him, Athos. You cannot claim otherwise. It's plain on your face, and in the way Porthos is silently despising you now. You try to talk your way out of this, but that isn't going to work. Not this time. You wear your martyrdom like a medal of honor. But I mean to take that from you this night.” Rochefort stood and stepped in close, all at once, so that Athos had to brace himself to keep from flinching-- or reaching for the sword that wasn't there. Rochefort was just a breath from him now, and his exhale was warm on his face.

“Just like I intend to take everything else from you. Your brotherhood. Your ties, your friendships. The others did this as a duty... but you won't be able to hide how you enjoy it, even if you wanted to. And do you think they will forgive that of you?” His voice was so low that Athos doubted D'Artagnan could hear. He turned to look at the lad, and sighed.

“I need to keep you aroused, while we wait. I'm sorry-- I know you're sore.” Athos glared at Rochefort. “But I swear to you that this, at least, will be pleasurable.”

“You don't have t--” D'Artagnan murmured, but he stopped at the feel of Athos's still gloved hand on his bare stomach.

“No, but you do. And I'm sorry.” He tried not to make the tone too serious, but he meant it. He leaned over between D'Artagnan's thighs and put out his tongue, gently stroking it up the length of his prick.

“Ah-uh.” The sound was made in protest, with a wince-- the boy was sensitive now, as could only be expected, but he needed to be kept aroused, needed to be gentled into it. And Athos knew no better way.

He kept his contact short and soft, never applying over much pressure, more of a tease than an actual sex act, but it seemed to do its work. D'Artagnan wasn't trying to shrink from it; instead he'd gotten his feet flat on the table and was bucking upwards, trying to find friction.

He didn't want to make him spill again, though. It would only make the soreness worse, and Athos knew his night was only halfway done. So he placed his palms on D'Artagnan's pelvis and held him down, though he did concede to his whines at least enough to drop his mouth onto the head, allowing his friend to luxuriate in the warmth and damp.

He breathed in and out harshly now, and still he struggled, but he didn't thrust upwards, which Athos was grateful for. They were still in the same position when Aramis returned. He dumped a handful of change on the stool near the door, then brought Athos the ice he'd been sent for. Athos accepted it gratefully and walked a short distance away to grab a bowl from where it rested on the hearth. He emptied the fruit from it onto the table, and smiled when Porthos habitually raised the apple he'd caught to his lips.

Athos grabbed his sword and D'Artagnan sat up, to the chorus of chair legs scraping, as both Porthos and the recently seated Aramis stood in alarm. But he calmly sat the ice on the table and gave it a solid thunk with the butt end of his blade, breaking it into smaller chunks better suited for his purpose.

He replaced the sword where it had been leaning and shot Rochefort a glare, to be sure he acknowledged the restraint that was being shown.

Then he brought the ice back and sat the bowl at D'Artagnan's side.

“Lay back, son, and I will take care of you.” He still looked wary, his exhaustion and fear of being hurt warring with his impulses as their friend. “Trust me.” Athos added, and that seemed to tip the scale.

D'Artagnan eased himself back, though he was slow and stiff about it. As a reward, Athos closed his fist loosely around the younger man's member and pumped it a few times.

His other hand, though, he used to pick up a small piece of ice, and with very little warning, he pressed it to the lad's inflamed asshole.

He cried out, and Rochefort let out a harsh bark of laughter.

“Oh, Very good, Athos, good show.” He actually applauded, the monster. Athos scowled and ignored him.

“This will help, I promise. I know it is uncomfortable now, but it will make it better very quickly. Try and relax, if you can.”

D'Artagnan's eyes were flashing, though, his mischief which had gone temporarily latent coming back to life behind the clouded shadows of lust.

The small piece of ice was all but melted now, dark circles again developing on the fingertips of his gloves, but Athos didn't mind. He selected a larger chunk and brought it to D'Artagnan's hole, rubbing against it as soothingly as he could.

He was surprised, though, when the lad bore down, intentionally swallowing it up.

“You're right.” He said. “That does feel better.”

Rochefort rolled his eyes.

“Apparently, unlike your friends' semen, the lesson has yet to sink into him.”

D'Artagnan made a face at that, but Athos shot him a warning look that begged him not to make things worse.

“And here I thought gratitude was one of the foundations of humility.” Athos returned mildly. Rochefort's amusement slid off of his face and he flicked his hand over the boy in an impatient gesture.

“Well, get on with it, then. As previously stated, some of us haven't got all night.”

Athos sighed and pulled of his gloves, noting that D'Artagnan's eyes clenched shut at their loss.

“I'll replace them. Ties are harder to undo with them on, though.” He assured him. He didn't know why D'Artagnan required that layer of separation between them when he did not with the others, but perhaps he could tell that Athos was... differently motivated. Maybe he too had a tarnished view of him. If so, he wondered how much longer D'Artagnan would be able to stay after tonight. Maybe Rochefort would have his way after all.

“You um.” D'Artagnan's tongue came out to wet his lip. “You don't have to.”

He'd been trying to gain some level of control. It was true; he'd become something like an animal, a brood mare but also a cat in heat, because he wanted. He'd already admitted to wanting for a while now, but more than the others, it was Athos who his mind settled on, in the darkest of the night, when the house was silent and his hand busy... Athos who his eyes lingered on and now Athos who he would have to try hardest not to burden with his feelings. This was what he wanted, and yet very much not how he wanted it.

Athos's fingers stumbled and stilled, just briefly, and D'Artagnan could see his nostrils flare.

But he said nothing; just returned to his task.

In short enough order, he was stripped to his skin.

D'Artagnan closed his eye to keep himself from staring. To keep from burning the image into the backs of his eyelids. He knew that resisting temptation later would only be harder because of this, because he would _know_. He would know what the touch of Athos's hands would feel like, already he knew the feeling of his mouth on intimate areas, but...

Athos's bare hand touched his face first, cupped his cheek and made his eyes spring open, embarrassed to be caught in his childish act of avoidance. But even then, his glance skidded across the concerned look that Athos was giving him, and landed instead on Rochefort, who was observing them closely, carefully. And his expression was odd, calculating and something else.

Athos pulled his attention back by stroking his thumb across D'Artagnan's lips, much the way Porthos had done to get him to open his mouth. But unlike Porthos, when the boy tried to pull Athos's finger in to tease at it with his tongue, Athos pulled it away and frowned.

D'Artagnan swallowed, certain now that he'd done something wrong. He'd thought he was supposed to be eager-- that was what Rochefort wanted, but that paled in comparison to what Athos would prefer, at least on his list of priorities.

Which just spoke volumes of how careful he would have to be to not betray that.

“Please, Athos? Please.” He bit his lip, aware that his exhaustion made his acting fall flat, made his voice too thin to be convincing.

“Slowly. I don't want to hurt you.” The amount of care in his voice was nearly enough to make D'Artagnan furious.

“Drawing it out will only make it last longer. Please, just... rut, have it over with. And then it'll be over, and you can.. can distance yourself from this. Please--” He turned his pleading face towards Rochefort, and just prayed that the man would have him next and call it to an end. He'd done what he truly intended, after all-- D'Artagnan wasn't sure how he would ever look the Musketeers in the face after this.

Athos winced as soon as D'Artagnan's face turned away, and he followed the direction of the boy's attention. Rochefort's eye was staring intensely into his face, obviously having seen the way he'd recoiled. But how else should he react. He'd just been reminded that no matter how he had thought this might be something more, D'Artagnan saw this only as what it truly was-- a punishment, a duty, and an exercise in humiliation.

He took a step away and rubbed his hands over his face. This would be much easier if D'Artagnan couldn't see him.

“Sit up. Let's... as we were before.” He circled the desk and brought himself up behind the boy, sliding his legs along either side of D'Artagnan's hips. He knew he'd washed some of the lubrication away with the ice and his fingers, so he grasped his oil, abandoned earlier and resting now behind Rochefort's perch.

He coated himself with it, then filled a cup made of his four fingers, slopping it messily over D'Artagnan's hole, trying to keep the contact both brief and effective. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, hoping he wouldn't have to clear it before he spoke, well aware that the action would give away his nerves.

“Lift up.” He didn't sound as authoritative as he'd like, but he kept his eyes fixed on D'Artagnan's shoulder blade, peeking out from under the nest that his hair had become throughout the course of the evening.

He knew they were all watching him, they were all finding in him the same weaknesses that had sent him sprawling to his knees in front of his Lady, over and over. And Rochefort was winning. And he didn't know how to stop it.

He eased D'Artagnan down, letting himself glide easily into the boy's slackened and stretched hole. He made only the smallest of noises in the back of his throat, but even so Athos felt it in the fingers that rested under the boy's thighs. He stopped the motion, forcing his muscles to lock up, and at that, D'Artagnan let out a muffled mewling sound.

“I'm sorry.” He whispered into his ear. “I'm sorry, I know it must hurt, I'm trying--” He swallowed again, in an attempt to dislodge the lump of guilt in his throat. But D'Artagnan shook his head no quickly and he could hear the sound of his lip slipping free of where he'd been biting it between his teeth.

Athos could only imagine the sheen and color of that lip as blood returned to it. He shivered.

“No, no you aren't hurting me, I... Please, move. I need--” He cut off his sentence and squirmed, rocking his hips and causing Athos's straining muscles to loosen in surprise. He flinched, and the motion allowed the boy to slide all the way down on him until his ass rested squarely against Athos's lap.

He was terrified that so quick of an entry may of torn him, but D'Artagnan just moaned and arched his back, trying to take him in deeper. Athos let out a shaking breath and held firm to his resolve, using just his arms to lift the boy up.

D'Artagnan scrambled to lay his feet out under him, so that he could control the rate of his rise and fall, and he immediately picked the pace up to a rate that was at once overwhelming and agonizing to Athos. He hadn't been able to work up to it, the way D'Artagnan had, he wasn't ready for that kind of friction. But he didn't think it was his place to say so. Better that it be this way, that he achieve his end quickly and D'Artagnan attain as much pleasure as he could from the act.

And he was getting pleasure out of it. D'Artagnan could feel it surging in him, white hot and liquid and spreading through his veins like a fire. It was consuming him, taking away all of his humanity, his mind, he wanted it to end and never wanted it to stop. He dipped his hips, feeling the rush from an entirely different angle, and he cried out and jerked forward. Athos wasn't prepared for that-- he almost went sprawling from his lap. But he was caught, saved, by Rochefort.

He looked up at his tormentor with eyes feverish from the sex and watering from the sweat that fell into them.

“Please.” He whispered,then again, louder. “Please end it? Please. I'm, I can't... so much...” He felt his tongue growing leaden and he felt his eyes growing heavy, along with all of his limbs, as the pleasure tried to build up inside of him to a new height. He was shaking with the effort of holding back-- it had stung the last time he'd come, and he hadn't come as much. If he fired dry, he imagined his body would just spasm and it would be agony. He didn't want that. He wanted...

“Finish this.” He begged. “Please, please... please, Master, let it end.” He didn't know why, but the title seemed right. Beneath him, he felt Athos jerk at the word and still, and Rochefort smiled wickedly.

“Do you want my cock boy? Want this to be over?” Rochefort stood before D'Artagnan, and slowly stretched his hand out til it hovered over the center of the younger man's chest.

“Please.” He whispered again, and Rochefort pushed him so that D'Artagnan went sprawling backwards, and Athos with him.

Athos felt certain he knew, with a sinking feeling of dread, where this was going. D'Artagnan was going to be left where he was, atop Athos, who would be denied his release. He would have to hold himself still and hold D'Artagnan as a man they all hated, and his young friend more than most, had his way with the lad's over burdened body.

Rochefort waded between both of their legs, and undid his trousers, fondling himself in preparation. Not that he needed it; he was stiff already, and probably had been for a long while, judging by the angry purple color and the sheen of the head of his cock, dripping eagerly.

The sounds of chairs scraping made Athos look-- Aramis was holding Porthos back again, and though Porthos was colored a red hue of rage subdued, Aramis was sheet white and shaking.

Athos couldn't meet their eyes. He looked away, guilt ridden and helpless. He reached up under D'Artagnan's thigh to dislodge himself, but Rochefort caught his hand, stilling it.

“I think not, Athos. You're meant to finish before me, and before this is over. So you must remain where you are!” He sounded faux jovial, and Athos felt like there was some great joke he was missing. He hated that sensation, especially with this man. His sense of humor was as black as his heart.

Rochefort leaned in, over both he and D'Artagnan, and he thought at first that it was to be closer, that he might say something intimately horribly to one or the other of them. But then he felt it, the pressure. D'Artagnan cried out, then full out screamed while he squirmed on Athos's chest.

“Hold him still.” Rochefort snapped, and Athos took D'Artagnan's wrists in hand. Somehow, the act of restraining him quieted the boy.

“You promised no lasting damage.” Athos snapped, and Rochefort grinned again.

“So I did. But this will not damage him if you do as I say. So hold him still.”

“What-- IS HE--” Porthos seemed to have just caught on to what was to happen, but Athos suspected Aramis had guessed long before. Before the big man could get himself worked up to a full bellow, Aramis had wrapped his hand around the back of his neck.

Whatever he said to him, Athos could not hear. It must have been words of assurance, or pleading, or calming-- something hissed more than whispered and which left Porthos looking chastened. Likely something about remaining quiet for D'Artagnan's sake.

Which was why he so treasure Aramis as a friend. He must know how much worse this would be for the boy if he did not relax. Even still, he had to offer him a way out.

“D'Artagnan, listen to me. It isn't too late. If you don't want this, say a word, a single word. Porthos will have him dead before another breath leaves his lips.” He spoke quickly and in a whisper so low that he worried the lad would not even hear him.

“No. No, almost done now. Hold me tight, and... please. Let it be over.”

“The boy has spoken.” Rochefort said, an all too victorious look plastered to his features. “Let me end this.”

It was not a request.

D'Artagnan's hands twisted in Athos's grasp and their fingers became intertwined, Athos squeezing the younger man's palm and D'Artagnan threatening to break Athos's fingers with the strength of his grip when Rochefort once again pressed against the opening that Athos was currently occupying.

A scream was tugged forth from D'Artagnan's lips, rough and guttural and transforming to words as the pain increased.

“You can't you can't fit, oh, God, stop, please, you can't, I'll-- “ And then only sounds as the head of Rochefort, the villain, slipped through the stretched muscle.

Athos could feel it, too tight, too much-- it hurt him, and he knew that was nothing compared to what D'Artagnan must be feeling now. He pulled one hand free and carefully ran it over the younger man's brow, trying to soothe, to calm him.

But D'Artagnan had relaxed, had stopped struggling, and for a moment he was afraid that perhaps he'd stopped breathing. But it wasn't so.

  
D'Artagnan's eyes had gone unfocused, until the man moving above him, the one pushing in further and hurting him so bad, seemed only to be so much moving porridge. He wasn't there. He was drifting.

His whole body had gone hazy, and a little numb. He registered the shift when the man added more liquid between them, and then he slid in the rest of the way.

He could feel the fullness. But it felt distant. Felt like a memory of a feeling, rather than something he was attached to. He didn't feel attached to anything. He frowned. No, that wasn't right. He could feel something pulling him back, something tying him down to where the hurt was sharp and strong. He flexed his fingers in Athos's hold, and just like that he came crashing back to his body.

He drew in a ragged breath through his teeth, the sound hissing like steam escaping its confines. He _hurt._ And yet...

Rochefort was beginning to build a rhythm, short bursts of movement, not very deep, not very hard, but he couldn't help but strike the spot that flooded D'Artagnan with agonizing pleasure, every time. Athos was there too, and he was providing the stretch-- suddenly he envisioned himself as a lock someone was trying to pick. He giggled a little hysterically, until the muscles in his stomach protested the movement, and he was left gasping.

“Shhh, shhh, it's okay. Talk to me, D'Artagnan. Are you alright?” He heard the voice behind his ear, pinched with worry and focus.

He couldn't make words, he knew he wasn't capable of that. He let out something between a moan and a hum, and let his head fall back and onto Athos's shoulder, so that he could use the rises of his own cheekbones to cut back on his vision-- so he wouldn't have to see the way Rochefort gloated above him.

“If he is harmed by this we will have your head served to pigs, toes first.” Porthos rumbled, his tone strained as he tried to keep it mild for D'Artagnan's benefit.

Rochefort grunted and withdrew further, obviously with the intent of sliding in harder, perhaps drawing some sort of cry from the boy. But his motion caused Athos to slip from his hole as well, so that when Rochefort rocked forward, he encountered barely a fraction of the friction he wanted.

He reached down to grasp Athos, but the other man snarled wordlessly, and he stepped back on impulse.

“Please?” D'Artagnan managed, the word more a whimper than regular speech. “So close now, it's almost over. Please!” His eyes were full of frustrated tears, and the sudden emptiness stretched through him more fully than both their cocks had.

Using the moment and the space, Athos sat up and pulled D'Artagnan up as well, guiding him into first standing and then straddling him, this time face to face.

“Look at me, D'Artagnan, and tell me you aren't harmed.” He said. He probed at the boy's entrance carefully, then raised his hand up behind the boy to be able to see his fingers. Checking for blood.

There was none.

“Only my pride, just as intended.” D'Artagnan managed, complete with the wry smile that assured Athos far better than any mere words would have.

On whim born of relief, he leaned forward and kissed D'Artagnan, catching the back of his head in his hand and pulling them together the way he'd wanted to for some time now. And the wonder of it was how D'Artagnan did not even hesitate before responding, lips and tongue escalating the kiss in a show of fervor and wanton need.

Athos broke away to look up at Rochefort.

“Lay on your back, Comte.” He commanded, sure and leaving no room for argument.

His one good eye narrowed, but he did as he was told, obviously willing to play along and see where this got him.

The answer, of course, being inside of D'Artagnan.

Athos stood, lifting his charge with him, and lowered him carefully onto Rochefort's prick, his eyes steady on the younger man's face all the while, ready to stop at the first sign of discomfort or displeasure.

D'Artagnan's eyes slipped closed at the feeling of being filled again, but he knew it was nearly done. He needed to come again, needed both of these men to finish. And he trusted Athos to see that it happened.

Once he was flush against Rochefort's leather pants, Athos leaned him backwards, draping an arm across his shoulders to keep him from having to touch any more of the Comte than was absolutely necessary. And with his other hand he lined himself up and kept himself from slipping as he once again stretched D'Artagnan to his limits.

This was different, though, done with care and trust. So that as he began moving, there was no fear of being broken, being split in two. He didn't feel like there was a knife to his throat this time.

There was just the rocking, the fullness, the shaking as he spread his legs wider, trying to get Athos deeper still inside of him.

“Love this.” He murmured into Athos's beard. “Want you.”

The easy rhythm stuttered a little, and Athos raised the pace, making Rochefort, beneath them, begin making small noises of pleasure. That reminder fresh in both their minds, D'Artagnan looked straight into Athos's eyes, gave him a smile, and wordlessly a decision was made.

Athos stilled. D'Artagnan squeezed. Athos moved. D'Artagnan shifted. And then, both together, they bore down until the tightness was nearly strangling for both Athos and Rochefort. But one of them was prepared. The other, the bastard, was taken by surprise and sent tumbling into his orgasm. Athos stilled again, then withdrew, schooling his face into something composed while he stepped aside to let his brothers in arms see the faces that their friend made at the sensation of Rochefort releasing within him.

Athos looked back over his shoulder, almost afraid to see his friends' faces, but he received a nod of approval from Porthos, and a small smile from Aramis. Thus reassured, he stepped up and stripped his cock expertly, until he spilled over D'Artagnan's dick.

“You've done very well tonight.” Athos told the younger man, speaking softly for him alone. “I am proud of your courage.” He lay his hand on the lad's still straining member, and using his own spill as lubricant, finished him off with his hand. D'Artagnan twitched, but nothing came out. He'd been wrung dry.

He felt him go boneless, and hastened to lift him off of the debauched looking villain.

With a glance, he beckoned his brothers closer. He placed the boy into Porthos's arms.

“Put him in my bed, get him cleaned off and as comfortable as you can make him, please. I'll be along shortly.” It was a testament to their tested but unbroken trust that Porthos asked no questions. He simply took him away.

Once he was out of earshot, Athos held out his hand towards Rochefort. The man reached out to take it, obviously expecting to be helped to rise, but his hand was batted away.

“The pardon.” Athos said icily. Rochefort sat up on his own, a twisted smile curling up at the corners.

He took his time tucking himself away, then withdrew the sealed paper.

Athos cracked open the wax and scanned over the message inside, his eyes widening, then narrowing with unfiltered loathing. He tossed the paper to Aramis, hauled Rochefort up without even bothering to dress himself, and punched the man squarely in the nose before throwing him out the door and bolting it behind him.

Rochefort's laughter faded as he walked away, but the horror and bile rising in Athos and Aramis's throats did not.

“It was already signed.” Aramis spoke softly. “All of that--”

“I'll tell him in the morning. He deserves to know. But he needs to rest now. We all do.” Athos shook his head, his stomach twisting into knots while he reclaimed his breeches, and used his shirt to wipe off the sweat.

“First thing tomorrow, I want to take him to breakfast, and then to a hot pool. No, have breakfast here.” He decided. “We will take the day to be sure all is well in our small family. I am sure we all will have much to speak of.” He wasn't particularly looking forward to it. Aramis, though, clapped him on the shoulder.

“We did well for him, though. We didn't know, but what we did, we did well. Hopefully he can forgive us. And tonight...” His expression turned to one of inquiry and wariness.

“I just want him near so that his dreams do not overtake him. You have my word, from now on I won't touch him without his express permission and request, neither of which I expect.” He shrugged, the words making it more real.

Aramis nodded grimly, accepting the oath.

“I am sorry my friend. I know--”

“He sleeps.” Porthos announced his return.

“And so should we.” Athos responded, clearing the worry from his brow. He threw a look at Aramis, and sighed. “Porthos, you should know that the pardon was signed this morning. We were tricked. But.” He hastened to add, “What we do about it is D'Artagnan's call to make. Tomorrow we recover and talk. Tonight, we rest. And two days hence-- may Rochefort quake in his boots for the retribution that we bring.”

Porthos grinned at this, the expression deadly and unpleasant. He nodded.

“Tomorrow, then, my friends.” He made sure to clasp each of their hands in turn, and without another word, the three musketeers made their way to their beds to worry, to examine their souls, and, eventually, fall into slumber.

It did not take any of them near so long as they expected.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this and would like updates on future stories, rambles about writing, and pretty pictures galore, feel free to follow me at MostFacinorous.tumblr.com!


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